


With Hands to See and Eyes to Think

by Rasp8erry



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Blood, But it might get better later???, Captivity, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Jongin is insane, M/M, Nothing will be really graphic i think, Sehun is blind, it's kind of dark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-26
Updated: 2018-05-26
Packaged: 2019-05-14 04:47:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14762868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rasp8erry/pseuds/Rasp8erry
Summary: When you lose bits and pieces of yourself, you begin to look for them in someone else. Until you lose yourself in them too.





	With Hands to See and Eyes to Think

**Author's Note:**

> What did I write. Istg i like fluff :(

The ever wistful feeling of loneliness sets in. In the valley between the white skies and seas, no one but him resided. While he danced across the plush ground, sometimes visitors would join him. They bore gifts of far off lands - of sweets and silks and stories, but the more they came, the lonlier he felt. The pain of longing for skies not littered with clouds. For clouds that bore rain rather than snow. He longed for color; he longed for paints. The world he lived in lacked decoration. As it was stripped of emotion, he too lost feeling; be it hope, be it happiness. 

It was once he became truly alone, once the travelers stopped visited, that he lost loneliness. For to him, loneliness wasn’t the need for others, but the want for others. When want, greed, and desire slipped away, he lost that part of himself. 

When desire trickled away, love followed suit. The blissful emotions, the stories he told himself in delight, and his happiness was stripped. It wasn’t that he hated life, it was an indifference - absolute indifference - which consumed his entire being. As he soon learned, for one to know hatred, one must also know love. For one to know anger, one must know joy. 

Piece by piece, fragments of his nature flew away. These memories and emotions, now trapped inside the same sculpted world he too was living in. With no means of escape, he simply watched the images, the stories, and dreams, and the truth shrivel and die before his very feet. He watched his toes curl at the sight, but he felt nothing. He watched himself shy away and retreat to the walls of the chasm that locked him in, but he didn’t know why. 

The feeling of his face morphing into expressions, but without reason. The sight of a visitor brought him no joy. Even when the visitor decided to take him on a vacation. Color was all he saw, flashing by hidden by hues of gray and blue. _‘Where are you taking me?’_ his mind screamed, but his mind was still left splattered, back in his world; the tints of red splayed across the snow covered ground. 

The bright pillowy ground of his past world was replaced with the metallic, dull, and cold floor of a room. The ceilings no longer looked like skies and the ground no longer was dusted in his naiveté. The comforting emptiness that began to symbolize his past life stood out in contrast to the cold vacancy of the room that now assaulted his senses. Because he knew peace, he still knew chaos. Because he remembered comfort, he could still feel pain. 

Pain, to him, changed from a privilege to a punishment. It changed from something his past self may have wanted, to something he instead feared. Despite the prodding, the cutting, and the _hurting_ , not once did hatred blossom, or at least not that he could sense himself feeling. Instead, his physical pains heightened to replenish what he lost in mind. The knives and needles and tools that were used against him were his only feeling. 

Despite his body screaming, he couldn’t do anything. He accepted the treatment because the men who surrounded him told him it was ok. While their knives cut his skin, their words sewed it back up, and their lips kissed his wounds. The polarity between their treatments would never incite question, because he couldn’t comprehend their motives. When they hurt him, he screamed. When they held him, all those memories slipped away. 

They told him it was for the best, that it would stop hurting soon. It never quite stopped hurting, but he did stop screaming. He stopped crying out in pain and grimacing when they poked around inside his body. All he knew now was the sturdy floor that supported him when he collapsed. He knew the sticky feeling that enclosed his hand when he reached out to grasp the floor. When the men opened the doors to leave, he remembered it as red, highlighted by the sliver of light from the hallway. 

He thought the color was beautiful. As the color melted along a canvas, he could watch the same color drip from the faces of his friends and family. As the blood drained from their faces and they looked at him in an emotion that he had never understood until as of recent. Fear. 

The faces of those people were now nothing but a blank canvas as well. Features such as eyes, noses, and lips blended together into unintelligible shadows and highlights. His own face faded to the corners of his memory, but the faint outline still remained etched into his mind, from the times he saw it reflecting off the metallic finish on the floor when the the light managed to pour in. 

He was almost forgetting himself, and he didn’t care to lose the little bit of himself remaining, lingering in the shadows of his recollection. The men called him ‘Kai’; an endearing nickname they chose when they first saw him lying on the damp pavement, with bruises littering his skin. A mirror, he realized, he needed a mirror. 

But _they_ would never give him a mirror. _They_ wanted him to forget, to give in, to submit. It was there, as he lay on the floor of a dark room, the bliss of cold metal against his fevered skin, that he decided he would escape. Suddenly, he felt the dampness of their first encounter, the rainwater, wedged between cracks in the road, seeping into his shirt. Except where he was now, there was no breeze, nor any real hope. Now, all he had was himself, and only barely. This time there wouldn’t be a savior or an angel, unless he himself fulfilled those roles. 

He decided he was far from an angel, but even a monster could be a savior.


End file.
